The Great Hiatus
by Tia Paes
Summary: He was probably in shock for the first few weeks.  Oneshot  Implied John/Sherlock. Spoilers for Reichenbach


**The Great Hiatus**

**Spoilers: **Massive spoilers for Riechenbach falls so reader beware!

**Rating: **PG-13

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything in relation to Sherlock BBC

**Pairing: **Implied Sherlock/John

**Summary: **He was probably in shock for the first few weeks.

AN: If anyone has read the Return of Sherlock Holmes, I have some hints at that in this story! I tried to stay as true as I could to it in a modern setting so hopefully everything works out. :D

~**SH**~

He was probably in shock for the first few weeks.

He knows what he is meant to feel but excluding moments of intense grief, he only feels a solemn numbness, which serves only to remind him of how wrong he feels. How he could have sat next to that chair or looked Mrs Hudson in the eyes without shaking is a mystery to him. The feelings catch up though and it's enough to make him an insomniac. He wakes up at night, his breathing short and sharp and his eyes searching doorways and windows for something he could only hope for. He doesn't dream so much in images as in feelings, a departing gift the war gave him when the feeling of fear was so much sharper then the sight of rolling dunes and unknown snipers. He becomes fearful of sleep and of the sudden reminders it sends him of a pain he's trying to forget.

Sometimes, he wonders if it's how Sherlock managed to work so well in all those cases. He had seen so much death and pain that it would have been almost natural to bury himself in mindless work and to escape into a world of cold calculations and study. So he follows suit, analysing his patients charts at night or hunting down a specialist that otherwise would have been nonexistent. He doesn't truly think while he is doing so but it's enough to bury that pain.

He becomes quite successful. The mindless reading of medical journals has caught him up to speed and he's quick to gain a reputation as a respectable doctor. The patients ask for him, by name, and he feels a certain rush at the thought of a growing career and a good salary. He's acutely aware of its irrelevance, of how dim the rush of endorphins seems compared to how it used to be. The adrenaline of a car chase, the shaky satisfaction of having caught that criminal.

But no matter how hard he tries, he can't crush the nagging feeling in his mind that whispers of unconfirmed suspicions. Thoughts which do nothing for his sanity, which are almost shattered by seeing the only person he has truly needed fall to his death. No matter how many times he analyses it, he never resolves the thought. He can never decide what to discard and so there is no improbable conclusion that ever pursues him. He is conflicted and unsure, perpetually in need of a distraction.

So he starts to date again. Thin, pale girls with dark hair which he really feels no affection for but mild interest. He sometimes laughs to himself, knowing that he definitely has a type. They dine with him, drink with him and sit in the silence with him when he wakes from yet another nightmare. Eventually, they all leave, most with tears in their eyes and a look that is almost hinting at betrayal. But he feels nothing at their departure but a silent disappointment in himself and conscious recognition for a very feeble attempt at distraction. He is never violent or angry, just distant and aloof. He bears a silence now that drives most to insanity.

He hates the looks. The overly gleeful smiles that hint at a weariness and annoyance at his emotional state. He sees it on his coworkers, more often then not, when he turns up ragged and depressed, ready for another day of mindless examinations that all seem to culminate in writing a script. But there are others that are more distressing. Small, pitying smiles from people who see themselves as saints and only nod at him with an air of silence. He's used to the questions of, "…how are you…" and, "…are you sure you're alright?" He's monotone and mechanical as he answers that he's fine and yes, he's alright.

But everyone once in a while, he'll catch a glimpse of something. A coat tail that seems familiar, a shadow in a store window that is just the right height. And then his heart his hammering, screaming to be released from its tight bounds and he goes through the process all over again of grieving and burying that pain that is too intense and too unresolved to surface. He wakes up choking on sobs that he doesn't allow himself in waking hours and then wallows in the distinctly unsettling feeling that Sherlock is not dead.

But then he dates a few girls, breaks up with a few girls, gets a few more patients and he's back on course. Still, he does not talk to his therapist and still, his blog remains cold and unused.

"Hello," he murmurs into his phone, annoyed at how it continued to ring without ceasing. He remembers the number distantly but can't quite place who is calling him.

"John?" Says a breathless voice and he's frowning, suddenly interested.

"Lestrade?"

"Yes. I. How are you John?"

"I'm… surviving. And you?"

"Working. As usual. Look, I've got a bit of a predicament that I might need your help for."

John laughs but its bitter and old when it escapes him, "Me? Help you? Why should I do that? So that your team can frame me for a few murders I've not committed?"

There is silence on the other end. He hasn't ever told anyone about Sherlock's confession. Sherlock's fake confession. The only resolution of the issue has been through the paper, entirely convinced that they themselves where right about the entire incident. He's never believed Sherlock's last words of confession. There was too much pain in his voice for it to be true. Their friendship hadn't been a lie, he couldn't believe that anything about the man had been a lie.

Lestrade sighs and it sounds like he's stopped walking, perhaps realising that he needs to tread carefully around John. His trust isn't so easily gained anymore. "I know I have no right to ask you for help but we're at a dead end with this one. If Sh…. If you were around, it might help us to piece a few clues together. You might spot something we might have missed."

He thinks for a moment. Considering what his night might be. Frozen dinner, late night television. Watching the window distantly and then realising that an hour has passed and his tea is cold. "Okay. But I'm just taking a look. What's the case?"

There is such an immense sigh of relief in the other mans voice that he wonders just how hard the case will be good. "Good. Thank you, John. It's a strange one. Murder, suicide. We aren't really sure. All we know is that the victim was alone and then, he was dead. No forced entry, no evidence of other occupants of the room."

"How's the body?"

"I'll show you it, see if your trained eye can pick up something we didn't. I'll send a car around to you to pick you up."

"At the clinic. I don't live there anymore."

"Of course. I'll see you soon."

He hangs up. Frustrated, angry and a little bit relieved that he for just one night, he can pretend that things are back to normal.

He should have been watching where he was walking, after all, it was a busy pedestrian sidewalk but it's only until he is staggering and holding onto a railing does he realise that he has nearly fallen over. The man he bumped into has regained his gait, not even turning his head to acknowledge him as he sped off in the opposite direction. John trains his eye on him, noting the dusty coat, the plastic bag filled with books and the brochure hanging out of his pocket that screams of a book enthusiast. Or at least, a shop owner.

He calls off to the man walking now down the street quickly, "Watch where you are going."

He brushes off his hands on his pants and continues to walk, cursing a little bit at the man and his lack of an apology. Sometimes he feels like his limp is coming back, as if there is a phantom pain in his leg that has resurfaced, as if to remind him that his therapy is now dead and that he once again, is going mental.

He's only been walking another five minutes, hoping to reach the clinic before the car, that he realises he is being followed. It's the book man, with his plastic bag swinging in the wind, rustling gently as he walks behind John at a distant pace. He's irritated and annoyed, wondering why everything exciting seems to happen in one day. He gets the same feeling in his gut, the one that spoke of death and pain soon approaching, not necessarily his but never enjoyable to witness.

When he gets to the clinic, there is a car waiting for him and a bored Sally Donovan is standing outside of it, leaning on it. He feels an immense surge of anger at seeing her, never having been able to forgive the way she bullied his friend for years and got away with it. She seems to recognise his anger, for she only nods before opening the door for him, seeing him inside and moving to the drivers seat. The silence is nearly unbearable but luckily, she has had the foresight to keep the police radio blaring with its static and in comprehensive language that not even a seasoned police officer could hear clearly.

When they are driving out of the clinic, he sees the man again with his plastic bag of books. He feels something strange at the sight of that lean silhouette and familiar grace of movement.

But he only sighs.

There would be no more miracles for him.

~**SH**~

**AN: **Okay. First of all, I am really sorry if there are any spelling errors. I did this wonderful edit and then stupid everything decided to explode and I lost all of it. So. Kill me (too soon? :S). Other then that, I really hope you enjoyed the fic and please leave a little word or two if you enjoyed it :D


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